Now We're Always Smiling
by Recce-Pizza
Summary: One shot. The Joker and his wife, pre-TDK and pre-Joker. Use of the F word and some blood.


**A/N**- Hey, this is just a one-part story kind of thing for practice. My first piece. Reviews and criticisms would be extremely helpful! Don't grill me over the punctuation or grammar- actually, do! If you could explain where I'm going wrong, that would be a great help.

Don't expect much from this but thanks for reading anyway.

01/11/08- I wrote this a while ago, just never managed to find the time to upload it. Don't even know if I've uploaded it properly anyway.

**Now We're Always Smiling**

She was doing it again, screaming her head off incoherently.

I just wanted her to stop.

I went into the kitchen and opened the top drawer in the cupboard, rifled through the contents.

The sharpest knife in there wasn't sharp at all. I pulled it out and examined the blade, brought it right up to my face; right up to my eyes.

She followed me into the kitchen, her shrill screams reverberating off the kitchen counter tops.

I knew the knife wouldn't be much good so I dropped it back into the open drawer and slammed it shut. On the side behind me was the wooden knife block with the meat knives in. I slid one out like a sword from its sheath and once again held it up to my eyes, an inch away from my face.

She stopped screaming

"What are you doing?" she asked, her whining voice ringing louder in my head than her screeches. I ignored her and replaced the knife in the block- it wasn't sharp enough. I pulled out the next knife and examined that one- also inadequate.

Why didn't we have anyway sharp objects in this godforsaken house?

I checked the rest of the knives in the block, none of which would do its job.

She started screaming again and more to escape the noise than anything else, I walked into the in-built cupboard, just off the kitchen, which served as both pantry and storage facility.

I stood with my back to the curtain that separated the cupboard from the kitchen. A door had once done that same job but she had kicked it so many times, out of anger that it barely managed to close anymore. So I took it off, fully intending to purchase a new one but she insisted that we buy a curtain instead, 'It'll be sweet', she had cooed.

'Sweet'. How I hated her.

I heard a ripping sound and turned to see her stood screaming on the threshold of the cupboard; her 'sweet' curtain lay in a crumpled heap at her feet.

'Sweet'.

Evidently she had just asked me some sarcastic, sharp-witted, manhood-depriving question as she had stopped screaming. I looked up at her face and saw blood spouting in little droplets from the newly sewn-up laceration which ran the length of her face; hairline to jaw.

"You've ripped your stitches," I said quietly.

That really pissed her off.

She started screaming again and her flailing arms began knocking jars and tins of food off the shelves.

She started kicking the fallen objects as she tried to walk back into the kitchen. She struck out at a jar of pickles and got her foot caught in the torn curtain. Somehow, she managed to fall spectacularly in the centre of the kitchen floor.

Her screams and tears sent a shiver down my spine, through my whole body, but the sound of her unhappiness sent a machete slicing through my heart. I sprinted towards her and dropped down on my knees beside her.

This was not what I wanted. This was not what I wanted her to be feeling; I loved her. I wanted my wife back, the happy, smiling, fun-loving eccentric I had fallen in love with in high school.

That's what I wanted. That's what I needed.

Who was this sobbing pile of flesh that lay screeching beside me, whose only emotion was hatred: hatred at the world; at me; hatred at the people who had mutilated her face?

I tried to put my arms around her but she clawed at my face, screaming louder than before and cursing everything from me to the pickles she'd tripped over. She ripped at her stitches and they loosened, sending blood streaking down her face. Every time she had her wounds sewn-up again, she'd pull the stitches out. She hated me. I grabbed her wrists to try and keep her calm, to restrain her, but that just infuriated her even more: the touch of my flesh repulsed her. She began trying to hit me instead of herself, but after I refused to let go of her bony wrists she stopped. She sagged: all the life in her just melted away.

My hatred rose inside of me again, freezing my heart over with its wickedness. Her lifelessness made me hate her; I much preferred her cursing and clawing, at least it was better than this...this...deadness. Even corpses had more life than she did.

I kept a hold of her wrists and she stared down blankly at the floor which we knelt upon.

What would happen, I wondered, if I squeezed her wrists? If I broke them, right here, right now. Would she be resurrected? Her shrieks waking the rest of the deceased with her? Would she attack me in anyway she could? Or would she simply just break down again; die?

I don't know how long we stayed there, in that awkward position, our knees aching and bruised off the cold, hard kitchen floor; my hands wrapped threateningly around her weak wrists, and our thoughts, our thoughts so very far away, but especially far away from each other.

Suddenly, I realised that I still had her in that vice-like grip and I slackened my hold.

Her head rose up to where our arms were, facing each other and hovering in the air. Her eyes looked further up and widened in shock as they found my face. I let go of her left wrist and brought my hand up to my face. I hadn't felt it but when I brought my hand away it was covered in a viscous, crimson liquid: she had cut my face that was all. Along my left cheek was a gash created by one- or several- of her fingernails.

I looked at her: her eyes were still full of surprise and something that looked a lot like fear. We were both silent. She didn't dare say a word- but why? Did she think I was going to flip, strike out at her? Surely she knew I'd never do that to her.

I put my hand back up to the cut, where the blood was now welling up quite quickly. I dipped my finger in it and spread the blood from the corner of my mouth, right up past my eyes and towards my temple. I did the same on the other side, it made me look like I was smiling, though nothing could be further from the truth.

The corner of her mouth twitched. I put my finger in the blood coming from her wounds and spread that in a smile shape around her mouth, my finger running over her bumpy scar. Her smile didn't reach as far up as my smile did, just to her cheeks.

I leant back slightly to admire my work and our eyes met. Suddenly, before either of us knew what we were doing, we were both laughing hysterically. And it wasn't that forced laughter either, like it had been of late, it was natural, insane, uncontrollable laughter; the sort you could bottle and sell as an anti-depressant, or at least as a class B drug, which is the same after all.

My heart was swelling, my love for her had returned, trying to murder my heart with its intensity.

I wanted her badly at that moment; I wanted our bodies to wield together and never separate. We still sat there in that awkward position, my left hand gripping her right wrist in mid-air, our mouths open, laughter still spewing out.

But abruptly, my laughter became demented and even though I knew I sounded crazy, I couldn't stop. It just kept on coming, like the blood that had started rushing out of the gash on my face and like my heart that kept filling and bursting with my love for her; my lust.

Her face fell at the sound of my maniacal cackling, her mouth open slightly, hurt and hatred etched in every line and scar on her face, her blank eyes reflecting more than her exterior.

I stopped laughing and my heart stopped filling after it had burst.

She started crying again. I pulled her towards me viciously, and kept her close to my chest. I knotted my hands in her flowing, delicate hair, trying to force her into my body, trying to protect her from anything and everyone. But I had failed! They got to her in the end and I hadn't protected her. They'd sliced her face up like it was nothing more than a piece of meat; like it wasn't my beautiful wife. She was still gorgeous, only she couldn't see it. I still loved her, I still wanted her. I craved for the touch of her tender skin, the pounding of her amorous heart. It was the sound of her heart that I had truly fallen in love with, one night, many years ago, I had lain with my head resting against her breasts, listening to the triumphant beat of her heart. I told myself that no one whose heart sounded like that would ever be boring, would ever do me wrong: no one with a heart that pulsated like that could ever be capable of lifelessness. Ever. I shut my eyes tight.

She sobbed into my shoulder and through her muffled cries I could hear her calling my name, over and over again.

And even though she was weak and miserable, soaking wet with tears, my love for her did not wither- not this time. Not since the baby had died had I continued to love her through the tears: usually, they made me hate her.

I nuzzled my face into the top of her head: the blood from my cut had stopped pouring so quickly and had begun to form a clot. I screwed my face up in her pain and felt the dried blood around my mouth and rest of my face stretch irritably.

I was aware of her continued sobs but now she had abandoned calling my name and instead whispered, "I love you," over and over.

I opened my eyes quickly and the first thing they found was a Stanley knife lying innocently on the floor; another victim of the aggressive storm that had been her thrashing arms. I leaned round her and stretched my left arm out towards it, my right arm still clinging lovingly to her silky hair.

My open fingers closed around the yellow and black plastic casing of what was, essentially, a razor blade. I felt her shift beneath me and she turned to look at what I was reaching for. I pulled the knife over her head and her eyes followed it. I extended the blade and her mouth fell open in confusion and terror- had they used a knife like this on her face?

Before she had even realised what I was doing, the deed was already half-done. I had dug the blade into my left cheek and dragged it down, mechanically, towards my mouth. As I started on my right cheek, comprehension finally dawned on her. I had already reached the right corner of my mouth before she was able to react.

She tried to knock the blade out of my hand but all she managed to do was smudge the direction and carve another slash under my lips.

The blood took a little longer to appear, but when it finally did, it gushed like a tidal wave; a tsunami. Its thickness and warmth filled my mouth. She fell back from me in horror. Her face showed incomprehensibility and abhorrence at what she perceived to be some heinous act of butchery and what I saw as a gesture of my love and devotion for her.

I gagged on the blood and it cascaded out of my mouth, making me grimace sinisterly in pain: a bleeding smile, mocking her fresh tears.

She screamed and crawled frantically away from me. "No!" She screamed. "No, no, no!" Over and over again, just like she had done with my name but this time, there was no trace of love in her words; not a speck.

She scrambled to her feet and retched as she stood up, and looking down at me on the floor, drenched in my own blood, still holding the Stanley knife, she vomited all over the kitchen counter. She stumbled like a drunk to the door and with one last terrified glance at me, ran from the room, still spitting vomit.

I picked up the tattered curtain, which was now also covered in blood, and tried to wipe some of the blood off my face. It was no good though, there was too much of it. The cuts didn't really hurt though, strangely. I couldn't really feel them: I was numb.

I got to my feet and walked through the house. I heard frantic movements and sobbing coming from our bedroom. The door was ajar.

I pushed it open and found her throwing clothes into an open suitcase on the bed. I walked into the room and stood in front of her dressing table and the mirror, which was perched on top.

"Where are you going?" I asked, quietly.

She didn't answer.

I repeated the question. She repeated her silence.

She had begun grabbing books off the shelf and slamming them into the suitcase. "Please don't leave", I said.

She ignored me and pulled open the top drawer of the chest and pulled handfuls of her underwear out and shoved it roughly into the case.

She had finished packing and began zipping up her case.

"Is it because you don't love me anymore?"

She stopped, hunched over her half-closed suitcase, tears drowning her face, filling up her mouth and preventing her from answering. After a moment she raised her head and wiped the tears away, smudging the bloody smile I had drawn on for her with her own blood. Upon feeling something more than the tears' wetness, she brought her hand down and stared at the watery-red blood on it.

"No", she said, simply," the blood..."

"What?" I insisted.

Her eyes shot quickly upwards to look at me, look at my face. She gazed at me and suddenly screamed,

"The fucking blood pouring out of your mouth! How could you fucking do that? To yourself? To me? To us?!"

She spun round quickly and seized the first thing to hand- our wedding photo- and launched it at my head. I ducked and it hit the mirror behind me which cracked and formed a bizarre, horizontal line that stretched from edge-to-edge; a wide smile. My heart was beating so slowly.

She wrenched the suitcase off the bed and dragged it behind her. It got stuck in the frame and she started cursing and screaming, kicking the suitcase, pushing and pulling it; trying to dislocate it from the door frame.

She stopped and brought a hand up to her forehead, closed her eyes and rested against the door. After a moment she started pounding the door with her fist, slowly at first and then gradually faster, building up to a massive climax. Her eyes snapped back open and she turned to look at me.

She slowly slid the thin, gold ring off her third finger and threw it at me. It bounced off my chest, directly over my heart, and fell to the carpeted bedroom floor with a soft thump. My eyes followed it and when I looked back up at her, I saw that the tears were no longer there, instead, they had been replaced by hatred so strong, it made the cuts on my face sear with an almighty pain.

"Fucker", she whispered, still staring into my face. She picked the suitcase up with ease and carried it out of the house. I heard the car engine start up and drive off.

I stood there for an eternity. My heart seemed to have stopped beating all together. I stood there until that life ended. And when it did, I turned around and found the cracked mirror behind me, still standing, still whole despite its mutilation; its scarification- like me. It smiled at me, sneeringly, and my gashes smiled back at it of their own accord. Without her there, the pain was starting to sink in; the aching, the feel of severed flesh. The magnitude of what I had done was still waiting to descend upon me- it had not quite hit me yet.

I walked over to the dresser and sat down on the little cushioned stool. I gazed into the mirror. The blood was still flowing fast. That really terrible pain, like the sort that had hit me when she looked at me, seared me again. Only, it didn't seem to go this time. I fought to remember her wonderful face and the pain eased off: thinking of her made the pain subside. I was starting to regret my little 'romantic gesture'.

I would have scars of course, like her, that's why I did it, so that we could be scarred together.

I looked down at the top of the dressing table: she had upset everything on it and had barely taken anything. I picked up a tube full of a white, creamy substance. I didn't know what it was called or what it was; I didn't understand any of her make-up. I didn't even like her wearing any- it made her look false. I used to nag her over it. She hadn't worn any since they cut her though. Two weeks ago, whilst we were arguing, she ran into the bedroom and started throwing all her make-up and powders and what not all over the place- I got a couple on the head- screaming about how I should be happy now because she knew no matter how much make-up she wore, it'd never be enough to cover the scars.

I began daubing the make-up all over my face; all over the still bleeding wounds. It stung like hell but I kept on doing it. I did my whole face, right up to my hairline.

It hid the blood- the dry blood anyway- then more blood came out. I picked up another tube and another little thing and before I knew it, I had drawn thick, black rings around my eyes, enshrouding them in shadow. Strange, the effect it had, like the whites of my eyes were the lights at the end of two very long tunnels and my irises were the unwelcome, approaching trains, heading straight for whatever lost souls were stupid enough to linger on the tracks.

The blood was pouring faster: had the make-up caused a bad reaction?

What I needed though, to complete my face, was lipstick- a certain one. The one she had been wearing the very first time I met her and on our very first date. It was her favourite and the only bit of her painted mask that I liked. A gorgeous red lipstick that she'd wear on our wedding anniversary or for any special occasion when it was just her and me.

Of course, she hadn't wore it for a very long time, partly because there had been no special occasions or reasons to celebrate- even our anniversary was considered pointless- and also because she knew it pleased me and that I loved that particular lipstick on her and that I could barely keep my hands off her when she wore it.

I searched for it zealously, knocking over more bottles of perfume and little pots of make-up in my attempt. I moved a lot of stuff around and found under it all a picture frame.

The glass was broken and the photograph was slightly damaged. My beautiful bride and I on our wedding day. Immortal we were then; indestructible. Now we were broken though, like everything else: the mirror; the picture frame and its glass- our faces, ripped and torn and scarred.

I dropped the frame back on to the dresser top, facing upwards. The lipstick I so desperately sought fell to the floor with a clatter. I leant down slowly and scooped it up in my hand.

Looking into the mirror, I applied the lipstick roughly, like a small child colouring with crayons, trying to cause myself as much pain as possible, but it seemed like I had gone numb again. I pouted my lips and the blood splattered out again, dribbling down over my chin and falling everywhere, like rain.

It hit the photograph and my eyes fell with it. It blotted the bride's face in a red puddle. Another drop dripped and the groom drowned as well.

I looked back into the mirror and was surprised to find a single tear had formed in my right eye. As I watched it, it began to make its way down my face, smudging the badly applied make-up and parting the thick blood that gushed down cheeks and mouth. It slid down my face and instead of falling off my chin, it continued down my neck and under my shirt and came to rest just over my heart.

Poetic.

I gazed back into the mirror and sighed: the make-up wasn't exactly right, but it would do for now.


End file.
